


The Art of Conversation

by lyricwritesprose



Series: Kisses Bingo [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kisses Bingo, Light Angst, The problems of growing up with a prophecy book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26313331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricwritesprose/pseuds/lyricwritesprose
Summary: Anathema is trying to connect with witches in England, and finding it hard going.  Newt is not sure how much he can help, but he wants to make Anathema feel better.  Written for the prompt "forehead bump."
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer
Series: Kisses Bingo [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867150
Comments: 28
Kudos: 75
Collections: Kisses Bingo





	The Art of Conversation

Anathema was the most intelligent, amazing, impressive, and gorgeous witch in the world. Newt had absolutely no doubt on any of those points, and could have kept on producing more superlative adjectives for as long as anyone cared to listen to him. Which was why it took him a while to realize that she wasn't good at  _ life. _

The first time he saw it, he was driving her home from a local pagans' meet-up (a bit too far away to go by bicycle, which was always Anathema's preference). Anathema was tight-lipped and silent all the way home, and then strode to the kitchen, grabbed her favorite mug, and dashed it angrily against the sink. Shards went everywhere. Newt jumped.

Anathema was also intimidating. It wasn't that Newt was intimidated—exactly—but the potential was there. And then he realized that Anathema was blinking back tears, and the worry that he had done something and Anathema would be angry at him became the  _ fear _ that he had done something and Anathema was  _ hurt, _ and that wrenched at his heart. "Did I," he stuttered, "what did I—"

"This isn't about you." Anathema wiped her eyes with a dark blue sleeve. "I'm sorry. When things get to me, I sometimes—sorry about the mug."

"It was your mug," Newt pointed out, getting the dustpan. "What's wrong?"

"It just—didn't go well."

"Were they awful to you?" Newt wondered what he could possibly do about a coven of witches who were awful to Anathema. These were people with spells at their disposal, after all.

“They  _ weren’t. _ They were  _ nice. _ They were very, very determined to be nice.” Anathema swiped at her eyes again. “It’s just that I have no idea how to talk to people!” she burst out. “I grew up with the prophecies, I was homeschooled, we didn’t have anything in common with the other rich people in Malibu because we had a Mission, and I only know  _ one _ conversation! ‘Me: I have to stop the world from ending. Them:  _ Whaaat? _ Me: Never mind.’ And that’s all I ever  _ say— _ if it’s not the prophecies, it’s deforestation or indigenous people and sustainable agriculture or water usage—you would not  _ believe _ some of the things Nestle gets up to—I don’t know how to keep a conversation going, I don’t know how to take what someone else said and say something in response that isn’t weird. I don’t have any idea how to function! I don’t know where the  _ instructions _ are for having a conversation!” She wound down, breathing hard.

Newt blinked for a moment, processing. “Not everything in life,” he said slowly, “has instructions.”

“I don’t know what to  _ do _ without instructions!” It was almost a wail.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” Newt stepped forward, put his arms around her—dustpan dangling awkwardly—and, because it didn’t seem the moment for a romantic gesture like kissing, bumped his forehead against hers. “We’ll figure it out. It can’t be too hard. You talk to  _ me _ all the time. And you talk to Adam and the kids.”

“Well, yes, but—you’re different.”

“I don’t think I’m that different,” Newt said. “I’m really mostly normal, except for all the things that happen to me.” To date, the list included the Apocalypse, police ducks from another planet, feral disaster Scotsmen, a ghost-hunting show that Newt hadn’t  _ intended _ to join anymore than he had  _ intended _ to join the Witchfinder army, but that would have almost certainly rocked the world’s understanding of supernatural phenomena if someone hadn’t let Newt hold the camera, and nearly getting killed by a falling piano. And probably one or two that Newt was forgetting. “No, the point is, if you can talk to me, talking to someone else has to be just a matter of, of adjusting the parameters. It’s a skill that can be learned like any other skill. Probably easier than dowsing.” He thought of something. “We could go to a cafe and eavesdrop.”

Anathema looked as she had never thought of that.

“You could take notes, even. If you get a fancy notebook, people would just think you’re a writer.”

“It would help,” Anathema admitted, “if I knew the basic ground rules.”

“We’ll work it out,” Newt repeated. “I’ll get us a—”

Anathema’s mobile chirped.

She looked at it, and blinked twice.

“What is it?” Newt asked.

“It’s Celia from the witches’ group. She says that she feels like we had an awkward start and she’s sorry about that, and that it’s her fault for not really being good at conversation, but she wants to hear more about green initiatives and she admires me for really knowing my stuff.”

“Maybe,” Newt said, “it isn’t that  _ you’re _ especially bad at anything. Maybe it’s just that everyone is muddling through, and every once in a while the muddles muddle each other.”

“Maybe,” Anathema agreed, and leaned forward to give Newt a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Newt.”

“I didn’t actually do anything,” Newt pointed out.

“Thank you anyway.”


End file.
